Nearer to Me
by Lono
Summary: You still want me.


**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. _Sherlock_ is the property of its writers, producers, and the BBC. "Back Broke" was composed and performed by Glen Hansard. I am merely borrowing his poetry because it does things to my heart.

For **Callista/broomclosetkink**: I wrote this to let you know I'll be thinking of you tomorrow and hoping your hearing goes well. I wish I could offer something worthwhile to help you, but I hope this at least makes you smile.

* * *

_Back broke and dancing 'cause you're here beside me._

* * *

"Why are you helping me?"

The question startles her, he can tell. He'd been sitting quietly in the window seat of her small sitting room for an hour now. Other than occasionally tracking raindrops trailing down the outside of the glass with a fingertip, he hardly even moved, let alone spoke in that time.

Sherlock can see Molly take off her glasses out of the corner of his eye. She frowns at him. "Why _wouldn't_ I help you?"

Normally, he loathes when people answer questions with questions, but he can't bring himself to mind, since her reply sounds genuine. He thinks that might be why he asked her in the first place. He's fairly certain that Molly Hooper couldn't be disingenuous to save her life.

"Because I haven't earned your help," he finally manages to reply.

Her sigh is eloquent. She'd been lying on her sofa, but now she sits up and scoots to the end, resting her hands and chin on the overstuffed armrest as she regards him. "Your mistake is in thinking that help is something that _has_ to be earned. Sometimes, it's not conditional."

"But…. Why? I don't delude myself that I'm always unkind, but I do lack certain social graces." He struggles, trying to articulate what's bothering him. "Really, you should have run the opposite direction, especially after everything I've asked you to do this last year, let alone the time before I faked my death."

"You've never been so horrible that I've felt the need to leave," she answers honestly. "You're abrupt and honest to a fault and sometimes you have poor timing, but there's a difference between that and being abusive. Nothing you've said or done has changed my regard for you."

His frown deepens and, still bothered he asks, "Then at what point is it too much? What _would_ send you running?"

"Why? Are you wanting to get rid of me?" She smiles weakly.

He jerks his head away to stare again at the blurry hues of the outside world. He can't meet her eyes while he reveals something so personal. "No. That's not why I'm asking. I'm trying to figure out how I can keep from doing something to send you away. " His gaze inexorably returns to her face. "Because I don't know if that's something I could bear right now."

Her expression is awash with… something. Compassion? Is he even able to recognize such a thing? He watches her carefully as she picks the book she'd set aside when he first spoke, dog-ears her place, and stands, making her way toward him. He swivels his whole body as she approaches, swinging his legs from where they're stretched out along the window seat so that he's now facing fully into the room.

Molly is short; it's no secret. And at any other time than this—this _so very important_ moment—he might make a pithy quip about it as he watches her hoist herself onto the seat beside him, her feet not quite reaching the floor. Instead, he remains quiet and waits as she licks her lips and wrings her hands in her lap.

Sherlock expects her to turn and begin frankly explaining why she's stood by him and helped him. Instead, she remains quiet, even when he looks away, thinking that, like him, she's uncomfortable with that type of audience. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her suck in a bolstering breath before she leans in and stretches up ever so quickly to place a kiss on his temple.

It's so fleeting that he would almost think it hadn't happened were it not for the slight coolness on his skin where her damp lips had pressed.

When he hazards looking at her again, she is in almost the same position as before, eyes downcast and hands clasped tightly. "There's not much I _wouldn't_ do for you." She speaks as if there weren't such a long, significant pause between his words and her reply. "And it would take a hell of a lot more than you being yourself to chase me off, Sherlock Holmes."

On this declaration, she meets his stare. She looks fierce. There's no play-acting going on, and he suspects, not for the first time, that Molly Hooper is the one of the strongest people he's ever met.

So what else can he do, when she looks away again, but lean in himself and kiss the corner of her mouth, small, plain, with the indents of nervous teeth marks?

"You didn't quite answer my question, Molly," he chides as he draws back, "but never mind." Standing, Sherlock holds out a hand to help her off of the quasi-high seat. "Now, how do eggs and soldiers sound for supper?"

A little warmth suffuses Molly's cheeks as she accepts his hand, letting him lead her toward the kitchen. "Sure, if you know how to soft boil an egg, because I never could manage it."

He wilts momentarily, but then brightens again as he readjusts. "I am a hell of a toast maker. We'll just have soldiers, no eggs. The fatty acids in the yolks make the smell on dishes linger for ages, anyway."

He proceeds to prepare her a meal of overly buttered toast that Molly later swears is more precious to her than any five-course meal over dim candlelight that he could offer.

* * *

_Back broke and happy 'cause you're nearer to me_

* * *

He manages to set aside those brief nigglings of doubt on a fairly regular basis. Molly is always so happy to help him. She gladly runs errands and messages for him when he hides at her flat and she almost never complains that he wakes her up when he needs someone to listen to his thought processes.

All the same, he feels nervous around her with increasing, alarming frequency.

Usually, those nerves are very much attributed to the concern and guilt over his involving her in this madness. But occasionally, he's not so sure that all of his nerves are borne of shame for what he's asked of her.

Sometimes, those nerves strike him when he is just watching her; like today. He keeps finding his eyes straying back to the corner of her mouth that he kissed nearly three months ago. He's not sure what is memory and what is supplemental. Did he have time to note the way her skin smelled when the tip of his nose pressed into her cheek? Did his own lips register the softness of hers, or is that something his brain has told him _must_ be true?

And then his eyes wander to the shell of her ear and its curve, and the wisps of brown hair that float around it. His eyes linger on her lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks as she looks down at a stack of papers. He talks himself out of compulsively counting the veins apparent in her translucent lids.

He has to stop himself from trying to learn the topography of each of those places where his eyes stray with his lips. When he finds himself leaning toward her unconsciously, almost to the point where he's sure she can feel his breath coasting over her skin, he draws back, feeling a tightening in his chest and a jerking in his stomach that he can only compare to those brief moments when he's felt _scared_. He shakes his head, trying to snap out of this strange stupor, but, of course, Molly has already noticed.

"What are you doing?" She asks when she feels the air moving as he yanks himself away from where his head was dipping toward the nape of her neck.

Sherlock blanches as he tries to come up with a viable excuse. Finally, _pathetically_, he says, "I was reading the Spanish care instructions on your blouse tag. It's sticking out. I'm trying to brush up on my foreign language comprehension. Apparently the dyes in this particular thread are known to bleed." He has no idea if that's true or not, but he's rather proud of himself for being able to say even that.

To embellish his point, he pantomimes tucking the tag back under her collar, even though it was never exposed to begin with. Mostly, he's thrilling at the brief brush of his fingertips against her skin above her shirt collar.

When did he retrogress into an adolescent, he wonders, hungry for the slightest contact with the girl he fancies?

Molly's quizzical expression smoothens slightly and she giggles, singing softly and almost in key, "De colores, de colores, brillantes y finos se viste la aurora."

He has to think back on long-ago Latin tutelage in order to translate that she is singing about the colors that dress the dawn. He realizes that her blouse is a bevy of cheerful yellows, pinks, and reds, and he feels pleased that he sometimes understands her mental leaps.

She smiles at him, her eyes warm with gentle humor while somehow conveying that she is calling his bluff. He feels his lips curve tentatively in return, realizing he doesn't want to mind it. He stomps down those dratted nerves. Shuffling toward her and stooping his head, he gives her time retreat before his lips meet hers. But she surprises him by gripping handfuls of his shirt at the shoulders and pulling him more firmly against her.

His arms are aloft, floating along the air that creates the negative space around her waist and hips, as he tries to split his attention is so many different directions at once. Where should he rest his hands? How should he move his lips? Should he stay pressed against her, or is it up to him to decide when to break the kiss?

The brush of her tongue against his bottom lip makes up his mind for him and he sinks into her, allowing his arms to wrap tightly around her waist. He nearly lifts her off of her feet as he pulls her closer yet. Their shared breaths and body heat do not make him feel claustrophobic and it surprises him. He has enough mental faculty to note that her skin really does smell that sweet and her lips really are that soft even as her sensible, short nails scratching on his scalp have him making a low sound in his throat.

A knock on her front door interrupts their embrace. It'll be one of Mycroft's cavalcade of expressionless agents, here to whisk Sherlock off to his next goal. He draws himself away physically and mentally from Molly, pulling down the shutters around her expanding presence in his mind. There can be no room for error where he's going and he doesn't understand how he could be anything but distracted by her if he doesn't lock her away.

As he sits in the back of his brother's car, heading toward the sea to catch a ferry over to the continent, he feels the encroaching worry and nerves set in again. He looks out at the blue winter light and the slushy rain that's forcing the windscreen blades to beat a rhythmic tattoo against the car's glass. She shouldn't have to be locked away in even a mental cage of Sherlock's making. By all rights, she should be moving on with her life.

Why does she stay?

* * *

_Back broke and smiling 'cause it's clear you still want me._

* * *

The day they make love for the first time, he is nearly floored by the shock of seeing her. The early Vienna spring has been cold and damp so far, and today is no exception. He strides along the bank of the Donau, trying not to let his body language betray just how much the cold is seeping into his bones. He wears gloves, but it's all he can do not to clap his hands together and breathe warm puffs of air into his cupped palms.

Things are progressing far too slowly for Sherlock's liking. He's been in Austria now for nearly a month-and-a-half with little to show for his efforts. Last night he nearly didn't make it out alive, managing to best the two Moriarty goons he'd stumbled upon—and this rankles—by sheer luck.

What followed were several terse phone conversations with his older brother, who adamantly insisted that Sherlock return to England immediately. Sherlock refused. He couldn't just give up this search. His next answer is somewhere in this city, and to quit now would be madness. Mycroft failed to see the logic in this, right up to the point when Sherlock hung up on him for the last time.

Which is why Sherlock is unsurprised to see the car pull to a stop in front of him, blocking his path. He actually expected it earlier.

Just as he prepares a biting remark, ready to lob it at his brother, the door of the town car opens and out steps Molly Hooper. Sherlock's words die on his tongue and he swallows convulsively at the sight of her.

Five months. That's how long it has been.

She's there for him. Mycroft may be good at emotional blackmail, but Sherlock does not believe that Molly would drop everything and come with any necessary coercion. He doesn't understand it, but he does realize it.

Hunched against the drizzle, Molly stuffs her hands into her trouser pockets and begins picking her way around puddles forming in the cobblestone between her and Sherlock. He finds his voice as he watches her approach. "You shouldn't have come," he rasps.

She stops only when the front of her jumper brushes his coat. "Why not?"

"It isn't safe." It's true. He feels a bubbling fury, both at his brother for sending her into this volatile city and at her for willingly coming. If there is one thing he has never had to question, it's Molly's intelligence. She didn't just decide to take a holiday to Vienna and say hello to her old pal/something-else Sherlock. She knows she's not in a safe haven.

Sending a poisonous glare to the car's tinted windows, he takes a hold of her hand and pulls her down a narrow alley, and then another. The sky opens into a heavy downpour as they wend their way along until, finally, they reach the service entrance of the ragged, two-star hotel he's been occupying.

They hurry up the housekeeping stairs and don't slow when they reach the hall with the threadbare carpet that leads to his stingy, single room. The only thing the hotel really has to offer is the anonymity it affords him and the fact that, in spite of its run-down tiredness, it's a clean place for him to get a little rest.

He shuts the door firmly, throwing the deadbolt and even the flimsy door chain before he turns back to face into the room; to face her. He can feel a muscle twitching in his jaw as he looks at her. She is soaked from their rainy trek. She doesn't shiver, though he suspects she's merely suppressing them, not wanting to betray her discomfort in this fraught moment. Her hair is weighted down, coiling into wet ropes around her shoulders, and he wonders over the fact that she's elected to wear it down on today of all days.

The midafternoon sky is blue-black as rain pelts the street below, casting the only light into his room. He vaguely notices some people rushing to dodge the downpour as he presses her into the wall to the side of the window, working to pull her sodden jumper, its yarn made tough with rainwater, over her head.

Their mouths do battle, nipping and biting, nowhere near any facsimile of gentle. She shucks him of his coat and shirt and sets to work on his belt and trousers as he finishes undressing her. When she does visibly shiver as her bare skin hits the wall, he feels a fleeting triumph before he concernedly pulls her away from the chilly plasterwork and backs her over to his narrow bed.

The damp on their skin soon gives way to the dew of sweat, and as he moves furiously over her and with her, he thinks that the soaked pillow where her wet hair is spread will be a welcome relief when they need to cool their fevered skin.

All too soon, they lie still, crowded together in the middle of the small bed. Their sweaty skin sticks together uncomfortably, but they don't try to pull further apart as they wait for their panting, gasping breaths to even out, for their furiously pounding hearts to slow once more.

He's still mad at her for being there, but not so mad that he doesn't selfishly trace the delicate tendons of her hands with his fingers as they look at each other. He is still so angry with her, but not so angry that he doesn't lean over again and again and again for more kisses.

They haven't said much of anything intelligent since they arrived in the room, but finally she breaks the silence. "Mycroft's just so worried about you. You scared him last night. And when he told me what happened, it terrified me, too."

Sherlock sighs. "I'm alright, aren't I? There's no need to kick up a fuss and risk creating an _incident."_

She raises herself up onto her elbows, a frown etching its way onto her face. "When will you realize that you aren't going to convince people not to care about you? It just doesn't work like that. We don't have on/off switches, Sherlock."

"Mycroft would take exception to you including him in the pantheon of my carers," he dissembles.

"The fact that I'm lying in a bed with you in Austria right now points to the contrary on that. I was on my way into work when he pulled up alongside me and told me that we needed to bring you home immediately. I somehow doubt he had this type of interlude in mind, but you distracted me from the point of my being here. Come home with me, Sherlock. We'll figure out what you need here and we'll go about getting it some other way. Because none of us needs a repeat of last night, least of all you."

But he's shaking his head already as she speaks. Though he felt a small thrill at her use of a collective 'home', he can't give up now. It would make him feel he had left some stone unturned or some horrendous, important facet undiscovered, and it's just not in him to do that.

And she must read it well enough because she doesn't fight him on it. Instead, she just rolls onto her side, burying her face against his throat. He kisses her forehead and allows himself to be soothed by the strokes of her fingers along the ridges of his spine.

She does ask him if she can stay and help.

He says no.

He makes love with her one more time and then he bundles her into his Belstaff, currently hanging unused in his small closet, kisses her once more, and tells her to travel safely. With a phone call to his brother, she is out the door, all traces of Molly gone from his room, beyond the indent in his pillow where her head rested.

He ashamedly hugs that pillow close to him that night. He smells her on it and thinks about her face as he sent her away. He wonders if this will be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

He loses sleep over it. Several nights' worth.

* * *

_Back broke and crying 'cause it's near our parting._

* * *

His return is predictably auspicious. It's lauded as a hero's resurrection, and he is forced to endure the pomp and circumstance that come accordingly with it. It is almost worth it to see the looks of joy on John's (once he's gotten over his initial hurt, that is), Lestrade's, and Mrs. Hudson's faces. He allows them plenty of time to come to terms with what he's done, patiently answering their questions concerning the things he doesn't freely volunteer.

Convincing them not to blame Molly for her part in the ruse is tricky at first, but eventually they forgive her. Rather, they would if any of them were to lay eyes on her, but she's so far remained scarce.

Sherlock tamps down a rising gorge of fear over her silence. He knew it would come to this and he doesn't know why he should feel so devastated by it now. He and Molly are like two reacting elements. He once would have described her as inert, but now he knows that when combined with him, Molly is completely reactive. But perhaps his sending her away was what they needed to reach their stoichiometric stability.

He is unsurprised, but he feels it burning in his throat and his heart. He should have prepared himself more readily.

But he didn't, and he is caught off guard when he sees her again. He is standing in his old flat a week after his return, discussing John's unfortunate decision to store Sherlock's items in a way he—Sherlock—most certainly doesn't like.

John is truculently refusing to back down, repeatedly playing the "You faked your death; you've earned a little organizational discomfort" card. He has long since moved out, but he agreed to help his friend make the flat habitable once more. Sherlock suspects that John regrets that decision more and more with each passing minute.

Sherlock is haranguing him about some priceless specimens that were mistaken for trash when the two men are interrupted by a light knock on the door. Both quiet immediately and turn to face the newcomer.

Sherlock had practiced in his mind how he would address Molly whenever he might see her again. But he can't pull that façade into place with any kind of efficiency, and John, seeing this and far too much, beats a hasty retreat, muttering something about needing to visit his fiancée at her work. He takes the time to place a hand on Molly's shoulder and offer her a timid but warm smile, which she returns. And then he is gone and it's just Molly and Sherlock standing in the sitting room.

"Hello," she greets him, her lips wobbling around a poor attempt at a casual smile.

Sherlock nods once and rushes to a box of books that need sorting. He needs to be cordial, he knows. After all, he can't blame her for any of this. They would be doomed no matter what the circumstances. He can't even tell why she would have ever betted on him, let alone continued to do so for as long as she did. It's something he can't sort out in his teeming mind; a mind that often teems with thoughts of Molly these days, because he misses her with an ache. He has missed her since before they reunited in Vienna, and it has only intensified since then.

But he's chased her off. He knows it. He's heard enough tormented love songs to know that she is likely here for that important closure. He supposes it wouldn't be bad to try to gain some, but he's never been one to match any sort of guideline, so he's skeptical that he'll succeed.

"I heard you were back. I heard the day you came back, in fact," Molly begins. "I had hoped…. Well, never mind. I just am glad that you succeeded in everything you set out to do. So glad. You worked so hard, and I wanted to tell you that I'm proud of you. You are a good man." She nods once to herself and starts to head toward the door.

He stares after her, wracking his brain, trying to figure out why she's doing this. He comes up empty. But he is certain of one thing, and it's that he needs to understand. More than he ever has before, because she has become so essential to his success, and he has to know how.

"Why did you help me?" He asks.

Molly draws up short, turning to look at him once more. "I've told you, there isn't much of a why. I would have helped you if you asked me to take out a bag of trash, and I would have helped you with so many things between that and you faking your death. I _wanted _to help you, Sherlock."

He presses on, growing frustrated. "Why?"

She wriggles her shoulders, as if she is trying to shake off something vaguely uncomfortable. "I think I've explained it as best as I can. I don't know how else to say it. You hate redundancy, after all."

"You've given me a non-answer, Molly," he explains. "Nothing to help me understand why you would risk your job, your health, and your safety for me. You should have dropped me at the first chance, because I am not worth everything you did for me. And you should most certainly be done with me now. You're foolish even to be here. After the ways I've hurt you and the ways I've worn on you."

"It was absolutely essential," she insists vehemently, even as she edges toward the door.

"Then answer my question," he bellows. "Give me the chance to decide that for myself!"

Sherlock shouting is enough to snap a response from Molly. "Fine, you want to know the truth? You won't like it. You know it, I know you do, but you won't like to hear it. It's because I love you," she shrieks back. "I love your mind, I love your face, and I love your heart! In the time that I've known you, I haven't ever stopped loving you, and I think it's unfair that you expect me to stop now just based on your whims.

"I helped you, Sherlock, because seeing you in pain hurts me. I wish I didn't feel so much dratted empathy, but I do, so get used to it. Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm not suffering from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome. That would imply you're somehow holding me hostage. I do recognize the difference. I'm here of my own free will. And my will is to love you."

Her voice shudders but her eyes remain dry and steady as she glares at him. "The only thing that could make me stop loving you is if you think I'm weak because of what I feel. Because that would mean you condemn me and couldn't possibly feel the same for me. And I'd rather just go on with my naïve delusions, thank you. So I'm going to go now. And I am sorry if what I said made you uncomfortable. I hope I'll see you soon at Barts."

On this pronouncement, she turns and runs out of the flat. He can hear her feet bounding on the stairs and her murmured farewell to Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't even realize he can make out the words because he's rushing after her until the sunlight hits him as he steps out onto Baker Street.

He frantically watches as she starts to move away, but his voice calling to her stops her from leaving. She turns to look back at him, and now there are tears splashing down her cheeks.

"You have to let me talk instead of running away," he says as he moves toward her, meeting her in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'm no good at this. I have no idea how to _do_ this. And I convinced myself that I'd be so bad at it that the other shoe was bound to drop at any moment. But if what you're saying is right, then _I _am the other shoe and I have the power to keep it from dropping."

Molly scrubs at her face with the heels of her hand as she listens to him speak. "Then why did you stop me?" She asks.

He weaves his hands into his hair, tugging at it as he fights to find the words. "Because I want to learn how to keep myself from dropping that shoe And I only want to learn with you."

She stares at him for a long while before she slowly, sweetly nods. They stand there staring at each other, oblivious to all other activity on the street and to Mrs. Hudson watching them from a crack in the blinds of the front window.

Finally, they move to each other, and Sherlock cups her face in his and their lips meet in a burning kiss, one from which he his loathe to pull away. But still, ne must. "You've changed somehow," he murmurs as he looks at her. "Where have you gone?"

"I've always been here," she says, stretching up on the tips of her toes to rub her lips against his. "You've just finally found me."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
